


The Darkest Night Will End

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gift Exchange, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valvert Gift Exchange Prompt #20: Javert is attacked by a man during patrol and his officers find him beaten and used in an ally. Valjean comes by the police office later and is horrified to see Javert as he is, so takes him back to the his home in the usual Valjean way. Basically a fic about Valjean babying and trying to heal a very broken Javert. He doesn’t have to succeed fully, as that would make for a fic too long for the writer, but ending on a happy note would be nice, like Valjean just being there for Javert directly after. Noncon preferred between the attacker and absolutely no dubcon. Bonus if Javert thinks he deserved what he got because of his upbringing.  Non/slash or preslash Valvert relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Darkest Night Will End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [time-detonated (tumblr)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=time-detonated+%28tumblr%29).



**Even the Darkest Night Will End**

 

Special thanks to the wonderful Chrissy-24601 for serving as Beta reader!

 

Chapter1: The Dark and Starless Night

Montreuil-sur-Mer, 1823

A lone figure leaned against the cold brick of the butcher shop, surveying the deserted streets.  It was half past two in the morning.  The pavement glistened in the hazy glow of the streetlamps; the soft patter of the rain was the only sound save occasional bursts of raucous laughter from the tavern patrons stumbling home.  Despite his lofty stature, Inspector Javert faded into the night like a specter.  The brim of his black top hat was pulled low over his brow and his chin rested on his neatly tied black cravat.  His large, powerful gloved hands were thrust into the pockets of his wool greatcoat; and concealed under his right arm was a long, lead-knobbed truncheon.  He was perfectly still—invisible yet seeing everything--shrouded in a cloak of mist.  He cocked his head, listening to the sleeping city.   His steel grey eyes held a feral glint as he searched for his prey. 

A series of gruesome murders had plagued the city.  The first victims were beggars and prostitutes found lying in alleys or near the shipyard.  They were found half-naked, beaten, and ravaged with their throats slit.  The next victims were gamins; seeing their broken bodies had shaken even a veteran like Javert.  He frowned, willing the images to leave his mind.  It would not do to dwell on such things.  Javert suspected the elusive _Les Chiens Qui Sont Roi_ gang for the crimes.  He had tracked the youngest member for a time but could find no way to link him to the crimes. The harsh lines on his brow softened for the briefest moment as he gazed at the sky.  The night was solemn and dark; heavy storm clouds concealed the stars.

A surge of adrenaline coursed through him as a woman’s agonized scream filled the night.  The hairs on his arms stood on end like the hackles of a beast as he raced down the street, staying close to the shadows provided by the buildings.  The large man sprinted with the feline grace and power of a man half his age.  If he had any hope of saving the woman and apprehending the criminal, he’d have to act alone.  He rounded the corner of a building to see a woman being dragged into a narrow alleyway.  A flash of garish rouge, a torn chemise and corset, and ripped stockings marked her as a prostitute.  He approached cautiously as revealing himself too early could be fatal. 

A hulking mass of a man crouched over the woman.  While the criminal was preoccupied with his victim, Javert adjusted the heavy truncheon in his right hand and thrust his left into the pocket of his coat, ready to retrieve the handcuffs.  When he spoke, his voice was a growl.

 “Halt!  Police!” 

 The criminal was nearly seven feet tall and built like Colossus.  Black, matted hair concealed his face.  The giant laughed—a dark, rumbling sound like thunder.  Suddenly, he turned and seemed to vanish into the night though his mocking laughter continued.  Javert raced to the spot where the criminal had knelt only moments before and could find no trace.  He checked for any stirring of breath or a pulse in the victim, but the dark, wet substance smeared across her neck already told him the woman was dead.

A clatter of footsteps sounded in the street and he raced after the sound.

“Over here, _gitan_.”  The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.  Javert snarled at the epithet all too familiar from his childhood.  He saw the man briefly in the light of a street lamp before he vanished again. 

“What’s the matter, Inspector? Am I too fast for you?” 

Javert’s heart raced and his legs were beginning to cramp painfully as his quarry neared the docks.  He pushed past a few prostitutes that emerged from their squalid holes attempting to solicit him with flashes of bony legs or lewd calls.

His quarry darted from one of their hovels into an alley. The criminal had made a mistake.  This area was illuminated with several lamps and he could be seen.  Javert allowed himself a momentary flash of satisfaction.    

He followed the man to his hiding place. The criminal had led him into a blind alley and then vanished again.  He heard a noise like the rustling of skeleton leaves and a roar that seemed to spring from the depths of the earth.   The man was a ventriloquist who threw his voice like a stage performer to disorient his pursuer.  Javert flattened himself against a building, letting instinct take over.  Javert needed to draw the man out—there should be other officers on patrol nearby.  The criminal turned to leave the alley and found his path blocked. The monster stood tall, arms crossed.  Javert could see the man’s face was obscured by a hideous half mask.  Javert crossed his own arms, lips twisting in a wry smile as the moment of his victory drew near.

“You’re under arrest, Claquesous.”  Javert’s right hand tightened on the truncheon and his left grasped the manacles. 

Claquesous clapped his hands like a child excited by a new toy.  “Very good, Inspector.” The voice was gravelly with a slight accent, possibly Belgian. The men stood still for a few moments. 

“I remember our last encounter.  You really should have trained your officers to be more attentive.”

Javert recalled that each time the police had come close to arresting Claquesous, he’d vanished, leaving no trace.  His identity remained a mystery.  Javert realized Claquesous had goaded him in order to force him to make the first move.  He studied the giant and discovered a small weakness in the way he bore more of his weight on the left side and turned his right foot in—an old injury or impairment.  Javert moved with preternatural speed and struck the man in the knee with his truncheon.  Claquesous howled and staggered for a moment.  As Javert attempted to fasten the manacles around his large wrists, Claquesous knocked the manacles from Javert’s grasp and grabbed his cravat, tightening it like a hangman’s noose.  Javert’s face burned as he struggled for air and clawed at the man’s iron grip.  He relaxed and twisted his body enough that he was able to strike the man with the truncheon, forcing him to let go. 

The ringing in Javert’s ears eased and the lights flashing behind his eyes faded.  The truncheon bounced off  his attacker’s thick shoulder and clattered to the ground.  His fist connected with the man’s ribcage, stunning him momentarily and allowing Javert to draw a pistol from his pocket.  Claquesous’ reflexes were lightning fast and the weapon was slapped from Javert’s grasp when the man grabbed his wrist.  His arm was twisted painfully behind his back, and he screamed as a bone in his wrist snapped with a loud crack under the hold that was unyielding as a vice.  He fought through a haze of pain to step with all of his weight on the man’s twisted foot.  He howled as Javert twisted free of his grasp and kicked him in the midsection with all of his weight.  This Goliath toppled and was pinned underneath Javert’s knee.  He grasped the Claquesous’s collar and hit him with as much force as he could muster with his uninjured hand.  He snatched the nightmare mask from the face to reveal the identity of the villain. In the darkness, Javert could only see a broad face and a hooked nose.  Still, the face was uncomfortably familiar.

“I didn’t know if you’d recognize me without the uniform, Inspector.”  He began to laugh.  Javert gripped his collar, knuckles turning white.  His face contorted, revealing soul-deep revulsion toward this perversion of everything an officer of the Law represented.  He shook the man by the collar, causing his head to strike the pavement, until righteous conviction regained the upper hand and he attempted to fasten the handcuffs onto the man.  When he did, the hand he had twisted under Claquesous’s back suddenly shot out and before he had time to react,a knife grazed his side. 

Shoulders slumped in agony, Javert pressed his uninjured hand to the site, feeling the blood saturating his shirt and seeping through to his uniform.  The cut was deep, but the greatcoat had protected him from a fatal wound.  His attacker dislodged him and he knew he had seconds to get to his feet.  He searched desperately for an escape.  His mouth went dry as he realized it was _he_ who had fallen into the rogue’s trap. His attacker was too strong and too well trained to fight while injured. 

Claquesous grasped his collar and head-butted him, breaking his nose.  His vision clouded and tears stung his eyes, blinding him.  His attacker struck him again and again.  His iron fists slammed into his face, abdomen, and ribcage.  Javert was sure he felt ribs crack under the onslaught.  He was barely able to stand.  The man hauled him to his feet by his hair and stripped off Javert’s greatcoat.  He turned him to face the side of a building and fastened the handcuffs around Javert’s wrists.  Javert’s injured arm throbbed from the motion.

“What is it you expect to gain from this, Claquesous?  You’ve just added resisting arrest and attacking a police officer to your crimes.”

Claquesous snorted in response. “What does that matter to me?”

“Do you intend to and use me to bargain for your life?” 

“No, but this has been a most amusing game, Inspector.” 

“It won’t be so amusing when you are standing on the scaffold.” 

“I do not intend to be caught!” 

 “Why don’t you kill me and get it over with?”    

“Not yet, inspector.”  The man leaned close and whispered in a voice that filled Javert with dread.  “We haven’t finished our time together.  I have such wonderful plans for you.”  His hot, fetid breath against Javert’s neck smelled of gin, smoke and rotten fish.  He felt the man’s knee forcing his legs apart and something firm pressing into the small of his back.  Javert’s stomach tightened in horror and confusion as the man’s hands worked on the fastening of his trousers shoving them down and leaving him exposed to the freezing night air. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, trying to keep the fear and panic from his voice.  He was alone and his injuries made him powerless to stop what was about to happen. 

The man did not answer immediately.  Javert heard a rustling of fabric and the clanking of a metal belt being unbuckled and frantically tried to turn around. Terror filled him as he felt the man’s hardness pressing against his entrance. 

“I’ll enjoy making you scream, you _gitan_ bastard.”

Javert knew it was hopeless, but still he fought, straining against the manacles and kicking at any exposed skin.  Claquesous pinned him to the wall and then he was pushing against him, forcing his way inside.   Pain, a sensation of being stretched to the point of tearing, and the humiliating realization that his body was no longer his own overwhelmed him.  He would not cry out—he would not give his attacker the perverse satisfaction, but he grimaced and bit his tongue, drawing blood.  Each thrust of  Claquesous’ hips brought more agony and drove him forward causing his face to scrape the brick wall.  Hot tears of anguish and shame burned the corners of his eyes.  He knew he would die in the alley.  He wanted to.  How could he live with the humiliation and the knowledge that he was unable to prevent this?   

Claquesous’ breathing quickened. The intensity of the thrusts increased until he grunted and withdrew suddenly; his seed trickled down the backs of Javert’s legs.

The sharp pain subsided leaving a burning rawness. Javert slumped down the wall as he heard the sound of Claquesous fastening his trousers. Javert heard the man approach and prayed Claquesous would finally kill him.  He could endure no more.  He was hauled to his knees, felt a sharp pain in his head, and fell unconscious. 

Claquesous picked up the discarded knife and lifted Javert’s head, preparing to slit his throat.  He froze when he heard hoof beats and nearby voices shouting. The man looked down at his victim then back to the street. 

“Your health, Inspector,” he growled, leaving his victim to die in the night. 

Chapter 2:  A Broken Life

Madeleine gazed with beatific sadness out the office window that overlooked the factory floor.  His heart was touched with melancholy as thoughts of the fragile woman in the hospital entered his mind. He still held himself responsible for her dismissal.  Fantine had once been lovely and full of light.  Although most would disagree, Madeleine still considered her beautiful despite the pale skin, hollow cheeks, and missing teeth.  Fantine’s suffering had transfigured her. 

Not unlike his suffering was doing to him: his grey-streaked brown curls stood on end and there were deep circles under his eyes.  He did not sleep well these days.  Lifting of the cart off old Fauchelevent had already triggered Javert’s memories of Toulon.  In attempting to defend Fantine, he feared he had further aroused the inspector’s suspicion and created true enmity between them.  The Inspector had been avoiding him, taking every opportunity to work night patrols in areas where he knew the mayor was unlikely to be.  Madeleine wondered idly if Javert would present himself for his weekly report today;  it was unlike him to be late.  Could he face the cold visage and withstand the intense scrutiny?  Each time he faced Javert, he feared it would be his last day as a free man. 

While he waited, Madeleine sought solace in his well-worn Bible, until a knock on the door startled him and he nearly dropped the book he held.

 “Monsieur le Maire—I must speak with you.  It is a matter of some urgency.” 

Valjean opened the door just enough to see that the man on the other side was one of the young police officers.  He opened the door and invited the officer in. 

“What is it, Officer Micheau?” 

“There was a murder early this morning.  Another prostitute was killed down by the docks.” 

Madeleine gasped.  “May God have mercy on her soul.”  He frequently visited the docks and brought alms, food, and blankets to the indigent; and tried to encourage the prostitutes to become honest women.  Their numbers had grown, much to Madeleine’s dismay, and far too many were dying from consumption or beatings.

“Has Inspector Javert been notified?” he inquired. 

The small man ran a hand through his thinning, reddish hair.  “Inspector Javert was tracking the murderer and he was attacked.  He’s been seriously injured…he may not survive.” 

Madeleine ceased to hear any more of the officer’s words.  The floor beneath him lurched and he grasped the corner of the desk to steady himself.

“This is grievous news.  Have measures been taken to secure the area?”   

“We’ve stationed extra patrols by the docks, Monsieur le Mayor.  If there’s nothing else..”

Madeleine absently waved his hand in dismissal.  “Thank you, Officer.”  The officer bowed stiffly at the waist and left.

When he was alone, Madeleine returned to his desk and collapsed into the chair, his chin propped on his hands.  Two ideas warred within his soul.  The man who persecuted him and refused to let him be was injured and possibly dying.  The long-buried beast of Toulon clawed its way to the surface.  His heart was filled with a sudden and shameful joy.  Even if Javert lived, the man who dogged his steps and haunted his dreams would most likely not be able to return to work.  That meant he could finally stop looking over his shoulder on his walks; he could live out his days without having to move from place to place or run in the middle of the night.  The fear of the chain, the hole, the red coat and green cap, and the sting of the lash would be gone.  This was right!  Things were as they should be.  There was nothing he could do anyway without risking exposing himself. 

He paced the office until he encountered the two silver candlesticks given to him by Bishop Myriel.  He stared at them and bowed his head.  The things that Javert had done were not done out of maliciousness, but out of duty and a sense of conviction.  Could he condemn a man for being harsh and unyielding in the course of his job?  The inspector could be cold to the point of cruelty and sometimes narrow-minded, but never evil.

After working so hard to become an instrument of goodness, rightness, and compassion—could he suddenly turn his back on a suffering man?  He cried out suddenly to his Creator: “What would you have me do?” 

The memory of the Bishop’s blessing echoed in his mind.  “Forgive me,” he whispered.  He had to forgive what Javert had done to him in the past just as the Bishop once granted him forgiveness and a second chance. He put on his coat and hat, fetched his walking stick, and headed into the street in the direction of the police station.  Sweat beaded his brow.  He said a silent prayer and mounted the steps. 

The young officer at the desk glanced up from a pile of documents, and upon seeing the mayor, rose and bowed.  “Monsieur le Maire—what can I do for you?” 

“I’ve come to inquire about the condition of Inspector Javert.” 

The young officer’s eyes widened and he motioned Madeleine to follow.  In a back room of the station, Valjean saw another officer kneeling beside a cot.  On the cot lay the unconscious form of Inspector Javert.  A blanket was draped over him, covering his lower body.  The slight rise and fall of his bare chest was the only sign of life.  His long, graying hair was matted and caked with blood; his nose was swollen with faint traces of blood beneath the nostrils; and his eyes were hidden by dark purple and black bruises, the colors garish on his ashen skin.  His right arm, in a makeshift sling, rested on his chest.  Blood seeped through a bandage on his side. 

The officer tending to Javert looked up at Madeleine.  “He was found in an alley near the docks. He’s been unconscious for the last few hours.”  The officer shook his head.  “He’s lost a lot of blood.” 

Madeleine had seen his share of horrors in Toulon.  Still, he felt lightheaded seeing the inspector’s battered body.   “He needs to be in a hospital,” Madeleine asserted. 

“During the few minutes he was conscious, he made us promise not to take him there.  It was an _order_.”

Jean Valjean stared down at the injured man, shaken to the core. “I will take him to my home and let him recover under a doctor’s care.  I will pay for all expenses.” 

The younger officer’s jaw dropped and he looked nervously at the older officer who said, “He won’t want that because of….a delicate matter.”  The officers exchanged cautious glances. 

“What is it?”  Madeleine asked. 

“When we found him, there were signs that he was…violated.” 

Valjean’s eyes widened in horror and anger. “What happened to his attacker?  Has he been brought to justice?” 

The younger officer replied: “He escaped. Javert thought he might be part of the _Les Chiens Qui Sont Roi_ but we lost the trail.” 

“As mayor of this town, I have the authority to override Inspector Javert’s order.  I insist that he be brought to my home and receive proper care.”  The younger officer started to protest, but the older officer silenced him with a glance.

“Right away, Monsieur le Maire.”

“I have a fiacre waiting outside and I will send for a doctor immediately.”

Madeleine allowed the younger officer to help him carry Javert to the rented fiacre.

The officer who assisted him said: “Take care of him, Monsieur le Maire.  He’s the best of us.” 

Valjean rode in the back of the coach with Javert’s head pillowed on his knee so he could ensure the motion of the fiacre would not worsen his injuries.  There was a part of him that still loathed being so near the formidable man.  He adjusted the blankets covering the man and said a silent prayer for mercy not just for Javert but for himself. 

When he arrived, his portress was sweeping the walk.  He left Javert in the fiacre for a moment, lest he send the old spinster to her grave from the shock.  He asked her to prepare a bed in the smaller bedroom and bring some linens and hot water.  “But first—send for a doctor immediately!  Tell him I will pay whatever fee he requires.  The man in the fiacre is gravely injured.  He will remain here until he is healed.”

“You’re not bringing a stranger into this house?”  The old woman wrung her hands.

“This man is not a stranger and you have nothing to fear from him.  Besides, you were once a stranger to me.”  She dropped her gaze, remembering the how he saved her from death in the pauper’s hospital and gave her permanent employment in his household. 

Madeleine saw that he had wounded her. “I am grateful for your concern and your service.”

He carried Javert from the fiacre and set the large man gently on the sofa until the bed was prepared.  As he carried Javert to the bed, he saw that Javert’s lips were pale and bluish in his battered face.   The portress brought the water and towels quickly, nearly dropping it when she saw the man lying on the bed.  She left the room quickly, her hand pressed to her heart, and muttered something about checking on the wash. 

Valjean pulled a chair up to the bed and placed the basin and cloths on the night stand.  He dipped a cloth into the water and washed the blood from Javert’s scalp.  The water in the basin quickly turned red.  He smoothed the man’s long, grey hair back from his forehead and moved the cloth over his swollen face.  If the swelling and blood were any indication, Javert’s nose was most likely broken; he avoided touching it, fearful of causing the man pain.  He replaced the saturated cloth with a fresh one and washed his sinewy upper body and shoulders.  He studied the unnaturally swollen right arm, knowing that only a fracture could produce that much swelling.  He left the sling and the bandage covering the wound on his right side in place until the doctor could examine it. 

If Javert was aware of any of these attentions, he gave no sign. Madeleine continued to cleanse the blood and filth from his skin, ignoring his own discomfort and focusing on the task at hand. When the doctor arrived, Javert was clean with woolen blankets keeping him warm and covering his nakedness. 

Madeleine attempted to excuse himself while the doctor examined Javert, but the small, portly man insisted he remain.  “I am not a young man.  I’ll need your help to lift him.” The doctor pursed his lips upon seeing the inspector and shook his head as he began to catalogue the man’s injuries. 

The doctor examined Javert’s head first. “There’s a small laceration here. It isn’t deep enough to need stitches, but it will have to be cleaned and bandaged.”  He directed Madeleine to hand him a strip of gauze and began cleaning the wound. “Even though the laceration is not severe, the fact that the inspector is still unconscious now is a bad sign.”

“What does that mean, Doctor?” 

“It could mean damage to his brain. If he doesn’t wake soon, he might never wake up at all.”  He studied Madeleine’s dejected expression. “But..We will worry about that once we address the rest of his injuries.  I’m going to take a look at the wound on his side now.”

He told Madeleine that Javert was extremely fortunate that the wound did not enter the abdomen. “The wound was most likely caused by a knife.  It grazed his side causing a laceration in the skin and soft tissue; but, fortunately, the muscle was not damaged by the blade.  It will need stitches, but as long as it does not become infected, it should heal.”  While the doctor stitched the wound, Javert began to move his head and groaned softly.  His eyes never opened. 

“Take the vial from the nightstand and administer two drops—no more than two!”  Madeleine awkwardly placed the dropper in Javert’s mouth and administered the drops which quieted their patient.

“Good,” the doctor replied.  “I’ll need to apply a dressing to keep the wound clean.” 

“Shall I fetch your bag?” Madeleine asked. 

“Yes, thank you.” He quickly covered the wound and continued his exam.

“Now, I need to see to those ribs. I’ll need you to lift his chest—gently!”  The doctor’s nimble fingers skimmed over Javert’s torso, pausing over a bruised area.  “This would hurt like hell if it weren’t for the laudanum.”  Madeleine winced in sympathy as the doctor prodded the area. “Two ribs are broken or at least cracked. His chest will need to be wrapped.”  The doctor applied the bandages while Madeleine held Javert’s torso. 

Once that was done, the arm still needed to be addressed.  The doctor found that one of the bones in the wrist was broken. “It appears to be a clean break and it should heal with a splint.” The doctor retrieved more bandage material and two small pieces of wood from his bag.  “I will need you to hold the limb out like this.”  He straightened the limb to demonstrate and Madeleine took his place while the doctor splinted the limb.  The doctor sat back for a moment after the splint was placed to rest.

“I need to turn him to check for other injuries.” Madeleine grasped Javert’s shoulders and began to turn him.  When Javert was lying on his side, they saw the spot of blood on the sheet.  Madeleine turned away as and gasped as the doctor discovered the source.

“This sort of tearing can only be the result of a brutal violation.”

Madeleine was unable to remain any longer.  He waited outside in an uncomfortable high-backed chair for the doctor to finish his treatments. He rested his head in his hands and did not move until he felt the doctor’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Will he survive, Doctor?” 

“He’s strong and in good physical condition. I’ve repaired the laceration and as long as it stays clean and doesn’t get infected, I suspect it will heal.  The broken bones will heal with time.  The main concern is the head injury.  If he wakes up, he may be irrational, delusional, or even violent.  Are you prepared for that, Monsieur Madeleine?”

“It’s a risk I have to take.” 

“The bleeding has almost stopped and the physical injuries of the assault will heal.   After suffering trauma this severe, the best place for this patient may be the asylum.” 

Madeleine recalled bringing blankets and food to the hunched, desolate, and frightened people crowded into the horrible place.  Memories of wretched inmates struggling against restraints that rubbed their wrists raw and rocking in corners, almost catatonic, made him shudder. 

“I would never subject him to that.” 

The doctor shrugged.  “If he shows any signs of fever, send for me right away!”

“I will, doctor.  Is there anything else I can do?” 

“Keep him calm and quiet.  He’s going to be in a lot of pain when he wakes up.  I’ll leave a vial of laudanum.”  He fished a vial of laudanum from his pocket and held it out to Madeleine.  “This is very important.  Give only two or three drops.  More could kill him.” 

“I understand, doctor.”  Madeleine took the vial and placed it in his pocket and walked with the doctor to the door. 

Madeleine paid the doctor’s fee and an advance on the next visit.   After the doctor left, he arranged to have his portress bring him supper, a bowl of soup and a hunk of black bread which he hardly touched. 

Then, he settled into a chair at Javert’s bedside, holding a solemn vigil.  He studied the man he had once feared and considered his enemy.  Now, he could see that he was just a man.  Not a superhuman hunter, and not invincible.

During the evening, Madeleine noticed Javert trembling and touched the man’s brow. Javert’s skin was burning hot.  He woke the portress who was bleary-eyed and more than a little cross until she saw the urgency in the mayor’s face. 

“Fetch the doctor immediately.” 

“At this time of night?”

“Yes! Tell him the inspector is showing signs of a fever.”

“Yes, sir.”  Her door shut and within minutes, she was on her way to the doctor’s home. 

Madeleine paced back and forth at Javert’s bedside alternating between staring at the window overlooking the street and the cross hanging above the bed. 

The doctor arrived looking a bit disheveled and conducted his examination.  “He does have a fever and a fairly high one.”  He frowned and sighed.

“What can I do, doctor?” 

“Try and get his fever down.  The rest is up to him.”  He rose from the patient’s bedside and placed a hand on Madeleine’s shoulder.  “Don’t expect a miracle.  You’ve done everything you can.” 

After the doctor left, Valjean alternated between adding blankets and applying cool compresses to Javert’s hot skin.  The grey eyes opened suddenly but were glazed, distant, unfocused.  He raved—most of it was unintelligible, but occasionally, a shout of “No!” could be heard. Madeleine tried to soothe him with calming words but he was unsure if the man was aware of anything.

In the dead of night, Javert’s breathing became quick and shallow and Madeleine feared the end was near.  He placed his hand on the man’s brow and bowed his head.  He prayed for Javert, his former enemy, with all his heart.

By morning, Javert’s breathing was regular again and the chills had stopped.  His skin was not as hot and Madeleine suspected the fever had broken.

Madeleine was reluctant to leave Javert so he arranged for his portress to check on Javert while he was away.  He instructed her to send for him immediately if the inspector woke up or seemed to be in danger.

Chapter 3: Emerging from the Wreckage

The first sensation Javert felt was pain—intense and searing.  His entire body was weak and aching, and he felt as if a demon was clawing at his eyes and daggers were piercing his side.  An iron vise seemed to be squeezing the breath from his lungs.  He had difficulty trying to move his abnormally heavy right arm.  He was warm and dry and the surface below his body was soft.  His lids were leaden but he found he could open his eyes, although they would not open more than slits.  Daylight temporarily blinded him. 

When he could make out his surroundings, he saw that the room was austere with only the simple bed he lay in, a nightstand, a single window, and a crucifix on the wall.  He did not hear any whispering doctors or smell medicinal odors—this was not a hospital.  His right arm had been splinted and he discovered he could move it only very little without causing sharp pains.  He pushed the bedclothes back and discovered he was naked.  His greatcoat and clothes were gone. 

This was wrong.  He should be on patrol.  A thousand questions filled his mind. Why was he here? How did he get here?  Where was he?  His memory was fragmented.  He remembered a woman’s scream, chasing a fugitive to an alley...

He suddenly attempted to sit up and bit back a scream as pain lanced through his torso.  He was unable to sit upright and sank back onto the pillows, waiting for the pain to fade.   A cascade of memories assaulted him.  Memories of darkness; a monster with brutish hands, foul breath and a nightmare mask beating him and….No! It couldn’t be true, but the burning soreness from the assault remained and he knew that the memories were real! 

He thrust the bedclothes aside with his uninjured arm and slowly rolled to his side inch by inch, careful not to move his splinted right arm more than necessary.  He shifted his legs and slowly lowered them to the floor, biting down hard on his tongue to stifle a cry of pain.  He tested his legs and pushed off of the bed using his left arm, and holding on to the mattress for support, tried to walk.  He heard footsteps coming down the hall.  His wild eyes darted from place to place looking for a path of escape.  Breaths came in short gasps and his heart raced from the rush of terror with the realization that he might still be in the clutches of Claquesous.  He could not endure any more torture.  He stumbled toward the window, but his weak legs could not support him. He collapsed helplessly on the floor, where he tried to curl in on himself, but failed to when pain inhibited his movements.

The door opened and a large figure stood in the doorway, his graying hair backlit and shining like a star.  Javert crawled back from the figure until he reached the bed and could go no farther.  He raised his head and his hand swept the floor for anything that could be employed as a weapon.  He knew the tanned, careworn face as well as his own.  He lay helpless in front of Monsieur Madeleine. 

“You!” he spat vehemently through cracked lips. 

Madeleine approached cautiously and knelt by the battered man.  “You’re badly injured.  You shouldn’t be out of bed.”  He spoke softly, as if consoling an injured child.  He moved to lift Javert and the terrorized man recoiled from him, pressing his back against the bedpost.

Javert’s haunted, bloodshot eyes were barely visible behind a veil of long, grey hair as he let out an anguished growl.  “Don’t touch me, convict!  I know who you are.”

Madeleine bore the insult without a trace of anger or resentment. “Let me help you.” He placed an arm around Javert’s waist and another under his legs and lifted him easily.

“I don’t want your pity or your charity, Saint Madeleine!  Let me be!”  The large man trembled violently in his arms, rage and pain contorting his face. Jean Valjean’s expression remained tranquil as he set Javert back in bed and drew the covers up. 

“Where am I?”  Javert demanded furiously, trying to sit up.  A pounding in his head and nausea twisting his gut caused him to retch, his body wracked by dry heaves. 

“In my home.  The doctor will be returning to check on you later this afternoon.  You must stay in bed until your wounds heal.” 

When Javert spoke again, his tone was frantic and anguished. “I don’t need you to be my nursemaid!  Couldn’t you be content tending to widows and urchins—people who actually want and deserve your mercy?”

Madeleine frowned, causing the lines etched into his brow to become more prominent.  “Is an officer of the law not deserving of mercy?”

Javert turned his head and protectively drew his limbs closer to his body.  He seemed not to have heard the question and Madeleine placed a hand on his forehead.

 “Dear God, you’re fever is returning. You need rest. “ 

Javert turned his head suddenly to escape the unwelcome contact.  He knew the deceptively gentle hands held the power to snap his neck like dry kindling.  Although he cloaked himself in the fine raiment of mayor, the tailored silk concealed a dangerous brute.

“I need you to leave me alone!  You madden me!” 

“I promise I will leave you to rest, but first you must take the medication the doctor prescribed.  It will help you sleep.” 

Valjean fetched a glass of warm milk and added two drops of laudanum.  He adjusted the pillows behind Javert and helped him to sit up.  Since Javert’s right hand was injured, Madeleine placed his hand over Javert’s left and helped him guide the glass to his lips.  Javert eyed the contents suspiciously. 

“I promise I am not trying to poison you.  Whatever you think of me, Javert, I am not a murderer.”

Javert drank the glass with an expression of profound distaste.  “Poison would be preferable to—this.”

Javert slumped back on the pillows defeated.  He would play the man’s game until he could find a means of escape, but he would not make it easy for him.

“Why?  Why are you doing this?  Is this a way to exact revenge?  I am defenseless and at your mercy.  I have been defiled and brought low!  I’m sure you are enjoying this!” 

Valjean placed the empty glass on the nightstand.  A flash of emotion—anger perhaps—lit the hazel eyes; yet when he spoke, his tone was quiet and almost wounded.  “Is that what you think?  I take no pleasure in your suffering.  I simply wish to see you well.” 

“I don’t understand.  You realize that this doesn’t change anything between us.  You will still answer for your crimes.”

“Are you so certain that I am Valjean?”  The mayor’s face was serene, but his back was rigid.

“I had my suspicions after you lifted the cart off old Fauchelevent.  I saw a man in Toulon lift an enormous stone off a man that must have weight nearly a ton—they called him Jean le Cric.  You also drag one leg—it’s a slight aberration common to one who has worn irons.”  Javert’s voice trailed off as he struggled against the sedative effects of the laudanum. Words were swept away from him like seafoam in a storm and his entire body felt heavy and numb. 

A sad expression crossed Valjean’s features and he did not reply. He placed a cool compress on Javert’s forehead.  The man still flinched at the touch, but his resistance was weakened from the laudanum. The harsh lines on his brow relaxed and his breathing slowed.  His eyelids fluttered.  As he fell asleep, he leaned into the comfort of the cool cloth. 

While Javert slept, Valjean made a brief trip to the infirmary to visit Fantine.  The woman’s condition was unchanged.  Only the hope of seeing her daughter kept her alive. 

When Madeleine returned, he brought in a bowl of broth and a roll.  He wasn’t sure how much food Javert could tolerate.  When he came in, Madeleine noticed that Javert had his back to the door, but he was awake.  His entire body was trembling and he had managed to curl into a tight ball.  His left arm clutched the sheet, and he drew it around himself protectively. Madeleine approached slowly and saw that his eyes were squeezed shut, tears suspended in the corners.  In order to spare the man’s pride, he pretended not to notice. 

“I brought some food.   You must be starving.” 

Javert’s eyes snapped open and he turned his head to face Madeleine.  “I am not hungry.” 

“Still—you must eat something if you are to heal.”  Madeleine placed the tray on the night stand and adjusted the pillows so Javert could sit up.  

“I don’t want your food, your charity, or your pity!” Javert turned his head away from Madeleine. “Just get out!”  

“I remind you, inspector that you are currently a guest in _my_ home.” 

He scoffed and turned back to face Madeleine.  “You mean a hostage.” 

Madeleine passed a hand across his brow wearily.  “No one is holding you hostage, Javert. As soon as the doctor says you are well enough to leave, I will not stop you.  Now, will you try and eat a little?” 

Javert did not want to concede, but he was still weak and he’d been having hunger pains. “I suppose the only way to get you to leave me in peace is to agree.” 

Madeleine held out a spoon to him.  “I’m not leaving until I see you eat something.”

Javert took the spoon in his left hand attempted to eat a spoonful of broth.  His hand was shaking and the spoon fell from his fingers.  He picked it up again, but his weakness was too great and he threw it on the tray, growling in frustration.  “I am reduced to an invalid!” 

Madeleine picked up the spoon.  Javert’s face flushed crimson. “I will not be fed like an infant!” 

Madeleine sighed patiently and placed Javert’s left hand around the bowl.  “I am not going to feed you.  At least allow me to help you.  There is no shame in that.”  He helped the man lift it to his lips and drink. 

Javert found he was ravenous.  When he had finished the broth, Madeleine handed him the roll which he devoured as well after snatching it from the man’s hand in irritation.  He directed his attention to the far window while he ate, refusing to look at Madeleine.  Thankfully, Madeleine had minimized his humiliation as much as possible. He imagined playing the nursemaid was not pleasant for the mayor.  Javert was still weak and naked and his mind was still preoccupied with what the man’s true intentions were.   Thankfully, after he had finished eating and Madeleine had helped him to lie down again, the man cleaned up and silently left the room. 

A few minutes passed and the doctor returned to check on Javert’s injuries and change his bandages.  Madeleine tried to slip out, but the doctor stopped him saying, “Hold on.  I cannot come every day just to change his bandages.  My duties at the hospital keep me too busy. You must learn to do this yourself.” 

Madeleine paled, suddenly feeling awkward.  He glanced apologetically at Javert, who averted his eyes, staring down at the bedclothes. After the dressing on Javert’s side was changed and his ribs were wrapped, the doctor and Madeleine helped Javert into a hospital gown; he had cut the right sleeve so that it could be worn over the splint and although the length was short, it was better than leaving him naked under the blankets.  Once that was accomplished, Madeleine excused himself.

Javert was left alone with the doctor who pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down, studying Javert with concern. “How does your head feel?” 

 “Better.  The dizziness is gone.”  Javert studied his graying brown hair, thick eyebrows, and weathered skin and suspected the man must be close to his own age.  At least he wasn’t subjected to one of the damned medical students that looked scarcely old enough to shave, he reflected.

“Have you eaten anything yet?” 

“Broth and bread.”  Javert kept his answers direct and objective. 

“Are you in much pain?”

There was a long silence before Javert answered.  Denying pain would be an outright lie, but admitting pain was a demonstration of weakness.  “It comes and goes.”

“Where are you hurting the most, inspector?” 

“My chest.”  His condition necessitated small movements to avoid excruciating pain.

“I’m afraid it will hurt until your ribs heal.  I can give you something for the pain.”  The doctor began to rummage in his bag. 

“That will not be necessary.  It is nothing I cannot bear.” Javert loathed anything that dulled the senses.  He resented the fact that he had been drugged with laudanum.  

There was an uncomfortable silence before the doctor spoke again.  When he did, he seemed reluctant.  “I need to ask about another injury.  The assault you suffered caused tearing.” 

Javert’s heart raced and his face burned as he was confronted with the memory of his attack. 

“Has the bleeding stopped?”    

Javert did not answer for a moment.  A dreadful ringing in his ears alerted him that he had been holding his breath.  He forced himself to exhale.  “Yes.” 

“Do you remember what happened that night?”

“ I have no wish to discuss this any further!”  Panic crept into his voice, his chest tightened, and he could feel himself fighting not to hyperventilate. 

“Forgive me.  I will allow you to rest.  Have you been able to sleep?” 

“I haven’t been sleeping well.” 

The doctor fished a vial of laudanum out of his pocket.  “Monsieur Madeleine has a vial of laudanum for your pain.  I’ll let him know, but I’ll administer some now to help you rest.”  He poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the nightstand and placed two drops of laudanum into the glass.  “Drink the entire glass and you should be able to sleep for a few hours.”  He set the vial down and was preparing to help Javert drink when he was interrupted by Madeleine knocking at the door. 

“Doctor—a boy just came by with a message for you.  He said you’re needed at the hospital right away.  Mademoiselle Chatelard is in labor.” 

The doctor picked up his bag and made haste to leave after instructing Javert to rest and send for him day or night if he needed anything. 

The doctor left the room and walked with Madeleine to the door, having forgotten about the abandoned vial.  Perfect!  

Javert knew he had very little time before Valjean returned.  He snatched up the vial, feeling its weight in his palm, and rolled its smooth surface back and forth.  He knew it would be quick and painless—it would bring an end to the memories, the pain, and the loss of control.  He prayed for the soul he feared would be eternally damned and removed the stopper from the vial.

The doctor closed the bedroom door behind him and addressed Madeleine.  “His condition is much improved.  I’m still concerned about infection of the knife wound, but he’s conscious and coherent so lasting physical damage isn’t likely.  Dealing with the psychological trauma will be more difficult. Try to get him to start talking about what happened.  He needs to face the memories in order to heal.  He mentioned he wasn’t sleeping well so I prepared a draught of laudanum for him. I have another vial here if you need it.”   

The doctor patted the pockets of his coat.  “That’s strange.  I could have sworn it was in my pocket.  I must have left it on the nightstand.” 

“Don’t trouble yourself, doctor.  I’ll fetch the vial so you can get to the hospital.”  Madeleine paid the man for his services then paced the hall. 

Something was wrong.  Javert hated anything that affected his control and the stalwart man never readily admitted being in pain.  He recalled the distant, injured look in the man’s eyes and the way he tried to make himself smaller and press himself into corners like an injured beast looking for a place to die.  Why would he ask for laudanum?  Unless…

Madeleine burst into the bedroom to find Javert with the vial pressed to his lips. 

He slapped the vial from Javert’s hand and it fell to the ground and shattered.  Javert struck at him with his uninjured arm, managing to land only glancing blows which Madeleine bore quietly. 

“Why can’t you let me die?  If you won’t let me end my suffering, then kill me!” 

Madeleine held his wrist firmly.“I cannot let you commit this mortal sin!  I know you have suffered greatly—that you are alive at all is a miracle!  I cannot let you throw that away!”

Javert stared at the ground.  “I am nothing!  What does it matter?” 

“You are an honorable man.  You did not deserve what happened to you and you do not deserve to die!”   
Madeleine released his arm.  The large man seemed to be choking—a dry, bitter sound.  His shoulders shook.  Madeleine realized he was weeping.

 “Please—I cannot bear your mercy anymore!” Javert’s voice was low and broken.  Valjean placed a hand on the man’s back, but Javert instinctively moved away from the touch.  He had not been shown tenderness since he was a boy and the recent attack was cause enough to fear human contact of any kind.

Madeleine spoke to Javert comfortingly, a benevolent expression in his hazel eyes.  “I won’t harm you.  You have nothing to fear from me.”  He studied the man’s hunched posture, the way his eyes darted as if seeking escape.  “Did no one ever show you kindness?”

The peculiar rattling of a silent laugh shook the inspector’s frame. “I told you once I was born in a jail.  My father was a convict and my mother a fortuneteller who sold herself when she couldn’t find work!  I have bad blood!” 

“You do not bear the guilt for your parents’ crimes,” Madeleine answered. 

“My guardian would disagree with you,” Javert snarled.  “After my mother died, I was adopted by an officer in the garrison.  He felt that the best way to teach me obedience was to beat me every time a mistake was made.  Sometimes, he beat me just to get rid of the bad blood.”  Javert could not meet Valjean’s kind eyes.  He knew they would be filled with pity.  “Because of my background, I was almost denied entry into the police.  I managed to rise above the squalor of my past but I can never escape it.  My service in the police force is all that I have.” 

“And your service has been exemplary, inspector.” 

“No.   My record has been sullied by this attack.  I have failed in my duty to protect the innocent citizens of this town.” 

“How have you failed?  You are neither lazy nor corrupt.  You are diligent, steadfast, and intelligent.” 

Javert took a shuddering breath. His ribcage ached.  “I allowed myself to fall into the criminal’s trap.  I did not arrive in time to save the victim and I allowed a very dangerous criminal to go free.  I deserved what happened to me!”

Javert’s desolation and guilt were heartbreaking to Madeleine.  He sat on the edge of the bed, providing a comforting presence but maintaining enough of a distance to avoid upsetting the inspector.

 “You did not deserve anything that happened to you. The attack was not your fault.” 

Javert did not answer immediately.  His eyes were tightly shut against an onslaught of memories. “It would have been better if I died in the alley.  I cannot bear living anymore.  Why did you have to interfere?”  

Madeleine tried a different approach.  “You will be no help to anyone if you are dead.  Alive you can bring your attacker to justice and save innocent lives.” 

A sudden spasm wracked him and pain lanced through his ribcage as he tried to shift position.  He cried out suddenly, prompting Madeleine to place a hand on his shoulder. Javert tried to shrug the hand away which only intensified the pain.  Sensing what Javert wanted, Madeleine placed his arm around Javert’s shoulders, easing him onto his side.  Although Javert resisted at first and his back was rigid, he had no choice but to allow Madeleine to assist him. The pain was too great. He collapsed against Madeleine’s shoulder, drawing on him for support. Javert had stopped weeping, but his eyes were still red-rimmed and haunted.   He had not cried since he was a boy, shedding his last tears after his mother’s death.  Now, it was as if he had sought release from every hurt he’d suffered since and Madeleine feared the broken body could scarcely contain the shattered spirit.   

Chapter 3: Healing

The next week passed quickly and the stitches were removed from the wound on Javert’s side.  Javert suffered terrible nightmares every night. After his suicide attempt, Madeleine had made him promise on his honor not to try to kill himself again.  Nevertheless, he had refused to give Javert any more laudanum and had thrown away the remaining vial. 

Most nights, Madeleine slept in a chair by his bed since he feared Javert would harm himself trying to fight off imaginary attackers in his sleep.  Whenever Javert awoke bathed in sweat and with his heart hammering a frenetic cadence; Madeleine would remind him where he was and reassure Javert that he was safe, while pressing a cool cloth to his brow or gently rubbing his back. 

Javert was too ashamed to share the details of his dreams. Then one night, Madeleine shared his own dreams of the galleys—the heavy chains rubbing his wrists and ankles raw; the lash falling on his back, leaving bloody stripes; the cramped confines stinking of sweat, death, urine, and excrement.  “I sometimes wake and still feel the sting of the lash and the heaviness of the chains.”

“I am in the alley and I am trapped,” Javert whispered, “I can feel the brick against my face and when I wake up I can still hear his laughter and smell his breath.  Even in sleep, I can’t escape him.” 

“The dreams will pass in time just as your wounds will heal.”

“Valjean—I still don’t understand how you don’t hate me.  You could have taken your revenge for the years you lost and the things you suffered.”  Javert’s voice was weary. 

“Long ago, I hated you and everyone else in the world.  I was an angry, bitter, desperate wretch.” 

“How did you become—this?” Javert nodded at him.  “If this show of transformation is indeed genuine.”

“It is.  A kind bishop gave me a second chance.  It shames me to admit I stole silver from him and when I was brought before him by the authorities, he told them it was a gift and gave me those two silver candlesticks as well.”  Valjean gestured to the mantle where the candlesticks rested.

“He told me he had bought my soul for God.”  Valjean sighed and turned away from Javert for a moment.  “Emerging from the wreckage of a broken life is never simple.  The pain we suffer in our lives can crush us if we let it.  When I saw you at the police station, I saw man just as broken as I once was.”

Javert did not reply that night or for several days after. 

Javert still required bandaging of his ribs. The first time Valjean dressed his wounds without the doctor, the experience had been painfully awkward for both of them.  As more days passed, Javert ceased to resent his dependence on Valjean and began to feel gratitude.  Javert had never really known friendship; in his line of work attachments caused distractions that could get men killed, so he’d never sought out the company of other officers.  Most of the men respected him but did not understand him.  They saw him as detached, cold, and strange as he did not drink with them off duty or seek the company of low women.  He and Valjean were not yet friends; yet he could no longer regard Valjean as an enemy, either. 

They would converse as Valjean tended to his injuries.  At first, Javert’s discomfort manifested itself as sarcasm.  He would half-heartedly needle Valjean while he remained stoic as the man bound his injured ribs.

“Must you fill every second with your prattle?” 

At this, Valjean smiled affably, knowing this was a sign Javert was starting to heal. 

Through his intensive investigation, Javert was intimately acquainted with many of the details of Valjean’s life.  He knew of the man’s childhood in Faverolles and his work as a tree-pruner.  He knew Valjean was one of the few who became educated while serving his sentence; however, he was surprised by the wealth of knowledge Valjean now possessed in many areas, from philosophy to science.  Valjean had not only become literate: he had become enlightened.

Javert was laconic when talking of his own past and Valjean did not pressure him to discuss it.  Only when asked bout challenging cases did Javert speak with extraordinary passion. Javert had personally saved countless lives including those of several women and children, and had tracked down and incarcerated murderers and rapists that other officers would not dare to pursue.  And although frequently the target of their pranks, Javert also looked out for the little gamins and tried to keep them from trouble or injury. 

Valjean was not surprised to learn that Javert was one of the youngest police officers to earn the rank of inspector.  The man was hard on criminals, but even harder on himself.  The shame and guilt he still bore after the assault, kept him from returning to his duty; and Valjean understood that Javert had attempted to take his own life because he felt that he deserved death as much as any murderer. 

One day, not long after Javert was able to walk without Valjean’s support, Valjean presented him with a trunk of clothing and possessions from his rented apartment.  Valjean did not mention that he had paid the landlady so the spartan flat would not be rented out to another tenant.

  When his wounds were sufficiently healed, Valjean had his portress prepare the large tub so Javert could bathe.  After making sure he reached the bathroom, he remained outside the door to allow the man privacy; when a significant length of time passed, he became worried and knocked.  When there was no response, he opened it and raced inside.

 Javert was sitting in the cold water vigorously scrubbing his body.  His skin was pink and raw, yet he seemed unaware of discomfort.

“Javert?” 

 The inspector did not answer and muttered to himself. “Never clean.”

 Valjean stepped in front of the tub and took the cloth from the man’s hand.

 The action roused Javert from his trance and he jerked, splashing water onto Valjean’s feet.

  “What the devil are you doing here?”  Javert reached out of the tub to retrieve the dressing gown from the floor to cover his nakedness.  “Get out!”   

“I was worried—you’ve been in here a long time and you didn’t answer when I knocked.”   

When he saw Javert’s bewildered expression, Valjean realized how truly disoriented the man had been.

 “Leave me!” 

Valjean shook his head.  “I’ve already told you, I would never harm you.  I’m not leaving until you get out of that cold water and dry off.”

He held a large towel up in front of Javert and averted his eyes as the man climbed out of the tub.  The man remained unnaturally still and his eyes darted from place to place like those of a trapped wolf seeking escape; yet he did not protest. Sensing his anxiety, Valjean wrapped the towel around his waist so the man would feel less exposed while he helped him dry off.

Once he was dry, Valjean helped him to dress in a simple white shirt, black trousers, and boots.  The right sleeve of the shirt was cut off above the elbow so Javert could put it on while wearing the splint.  His hair had grown long and his normally immaculately groomed whiskers had disappeared under a scraggy beard.  Valjean wanted to send for a barber, but Javert wouldn’t allow it and insisted that he could do it himself.  He growled in frustration as he nicked himself on the chin trying to shave with his left hand.  He reluctantly allowed Valjean to help him shave, bearing an expression of abject misery the entire time; yet reflecting that to allow the former convict to pass the cold metal of the razor across his exposed throat, he now had complete trust in the man.  The convict’s large laborer’s hands were exceedingly gentle.  True to his word, Valjean did not scratch his skin in the slightest. Once the last traces of lather were removed from his skin; Valjean trimmed his thick whiskers and then ran a comb through his long grey hair, carefully disentangling the knots he encountered with his fingers before tying it in a neat queue. 

It was a strange thing to be cared for.  Not altogether unpleasant.  A perplexing mix of gratitude and humility filled Javert’s heart.

Valjean handed him a mirror and smiled at his handiwork. 

“Much better. You look like yourself again.” 

The face that greeted Javert was still drawn and haggard, but the swelling and bruising had faded. A small bump on the bridge of his nose remained as the only visible scar from his attack.  Javert offered him a curt nod and clipped “Thank you”  and quickly set the mirror down.

Valjean left Javert alone for longer periods of time now and Javert was beginning to grow restless.  He was not yet ready to work, but he found himself thinking about cases he’d solved.  Valjean seemed to sense this and Javert found a stack of files waiting for him on the table in the kitchen one night. 

Javert glanced at the table, tapped the stack with an index finger, and gazed at Valjean with a piercing stare.  “What is the meaning of this?”    

Valjean shrugged sheepishly.  “I took the liberty of bringing some of your work home for you.” 

“What?!?  You went to the station?”  Javert shouted. 

“Yes.  I thought your officers should know you’re feeling better.” 

Javert’s face was livid.  His muscles were tensed as though he were a lion ready to pounce, but he stood perfectly still, emphasizing every word.  “You went there without my permission!”

Valjean raised his arms defensively. “Peace, Javert.  They are all anxious for your return.  It seems your substitute leaves much to be desired.” 

Javert’s muscles relaxed as he pictured his nervous second-in-command and his lip twisted in a wry smile.  “Yes, I suppose he does.” 

Valjean looked relieved. “I have to leave for a bit now, but I’ll be back tonight.” 

“Try not to get yourself into any trouble, Valjean. Stay away from the docks.” 

Valjean nodded and replied, “I had the portress bring in some newspapers and books for you as well.  I won’t be gone long.” 

Javert sighed. “I’m sure I will survive.” 

Valjean moved toward the door, turning back and eyeing Javert almost reluctantly.  He opened his mouth as if to say something else, thought the better of it, and abruptly left. 

 

Hours later, Javert sat at the table perusing the stack of case files.  Another murder happened while he had been convalescing.  He recognized the victim’s name—Phillipe Laurent.   The tiny snip of a boy was one of the gamins Javert constantly had to chase away from bakery shop windows or snatch off the city wall as they dared each other to lean over the side.  If the boy’s parents were still living, he’d never seen them.  He recalled he’d seen the boy begging outside the tavern with an older gamin named Andre.  Interviewing Andre might be a good starting point—if he could endure the brat’s insults and mischief.

Javert frowned.  From the files, he could tell that Claquesous was becoming increasingly brash, killing in more central locations.  He had to force himself to remember the details of his attacker’s face.  He steeled himself, trying to remember as an objective observer, focusing only on the information he needed.  The man’s face was broad and the nose was hooked.  He wasn’t entirely certain, but he thought the close-set eyes had been dark rather than light.  He searched the station in his mind, taking inventory of the employees.  He remembered a brief encounter when his colleague introduced him to an unsually large man in peasant clothes known as Le Cabuc. He recalled that the man was a police agent familiar with the Paris underground who was known for his controversial tactics, sometimes bordering on sadistic.  Although they had never worked together, Javert had no doubts that LeCabuc was Claquesous. Javert had the information to stop him, but timing and tact were essential. There was the problem of how to reveal the information he had about Le Cabuc’s secret identity and when.  He also had to consider if Le Cabuc had any accomplices.  

Sudden dizziness and incandescent flashes before his eyes caused him to shut the file.  His respirations doubled as he felt the man’s hands on him again and the cold brick of the alley against his face.  He stood up pressing his hands to his temples, forcing his breathing to slow.  When he could see again, he stood and kicked the kitchen chair in a fit of rage.  The wood splintered with a satisfying crack.  He grabbed the delicate saucer on the table and hurled it against the wall, watching it crash and shatter.  Anger still unsated, he upended the table and screamed, an inhuman wail, horrifying in its desperation.  The burst of activity caused his arm and chest to throb.  He sank down on the cool floor, his entire body trembling violently.  He was no longer an officer with an unspotted record.  After living a chaste life of abnegation and probity, he was no longer pure—he was vile and contaminated—Claquesous had seen to that. 

And Valjean.  Javert had become an accomplice through his failure to report the man.  He knew the law dictated he should turn him in.  He could claim Valjean had abducted him and return to his post, but he knew that would make him no better than Judas.

 He thought of leaving the house while Valjean was away and heading to his flat where the cold touch of a loaded pistol against his temple promised relief.  He knew that breaking his promise to Valjean not to harm himself would serve only to further dishonor him, but what did honor matter to the dead?

He rose, cleaned up the fragments of the porcelain saucer and the wood of the chair, and tried to imagine what he would tell Valjean about the table, because he was unable to return it to its upright position by himself.  Ultimately, the man who never lied told the truth.

Valjean’s expression remained placid as he put the table back. When Javert offered to pay for Valjean’s damaged property and return to his own flat, Valjean claimed that he had never cared for the chair or the saucer anyway.

For several days, Javert continued to go through case files, sometimes into the early morning hours.  Valjean would occasionally catch him sleeping on the kitchen table, head pillowed on his arms, a candle casting eerie shadows on his face.  Javert would wake to find a woolen blanket draped over his shoulders and the candle extinguished. 

Despite Madeleine’s busy schedule at the factory and his many charity projects and official obligations, Valjean expressed a desire to help Javert with his work.  He hoped that by bringing his attacker to justice, Javert would begin to heal.  He had heard the screams when Javert was besieged by nightmares and saw the heartbreaking way every muscle tensed from even the smallest touch. 

But allowing Valjean’s assistance meant Javert had to divulge painful memories.  He tried to limit the information to objective, technical details.  _The culprit is almost seven feet tall, long black hair, brown eyes.  His alias is Claquesous, but he wears a mask to hide his identity.  He is an undercover police agent named Le Cabuc._ Valjean would take notes and sift through case files. 

In the end, they agreed that the most prudent course was to denounce LeCabuc to the prefect of Police since it was impossible to know if he might have accomplices among the officers.

Valjean presented Javert with a new greatcoat, tophat, and walking stick.  His old greatcoat was threadbare, stained, and patched in several places; but this one was exquisite.  The fine wool was soft and far warmer than his old coat had been.  While Javert silently marvelled at the coat, Valjean suggested the weather was perfect for a walk and the world stilled. 

Valjean sensed Javert’s unease.  “What is it?”    

“I’m not sure I am ready.” 

“The doctor said you need to start exercising.” 

Javert looked away.  “Perhaps tomorrow.” 

“The fresh air will do you good.  I promise to stay beside you.  If you start to feel poorly, just tell me and we will return to the house.”  Reluctantly, Javert left the safety of Madeleine’s house and allowed himself to be led onto the street. 

Javert squinted in the blinding sunlight.  He still leaned on the cane since his ribs and arm were not yet healed, but most of all, he missed the familiar feeling of his truncheon tucked under his arm. 

There were a fair number of townsfolk about and the mayor tipped his hat and greeted them with a kind  smile and an occasional coin.  Several of the ladies turned to stare at the men, whispering as they passed them on the street.  Javert wore the hat low over his brow, concealing his downcast eyes. 

Valjean directed their path toward the factory.  “I have some business to attend to at the factory.  Will you accompany me?”  Javert nodded his assent. 

He regarded the white-washed walls of the factory and the lines of women cloaked in blue bonnets and aprons seated on their benches.  He followed Valjean to the office that overlooked the factory floor, where Valjean sat behind the large, oaken desk and gestured for Javert to take one of the other chairs.   “I thought you could assist me in putting things in order at the factory,” said Valjean as he shuffled a stack of papers.  Javert stared at him, bewildered.  “Are you planning on going away?” 

“Fantine died last night.  She has a daughter living with an innkeeper and his wife in Montfermeil.  I promised to retrieve her.” 

Javert’s expression darkened, remembering how the mayor had defied his judgement and shamed him in front of his officers, but his momentary anger evaporated swiftly.

Javert leaned forward, nails absently scratching his whiskers. 

“What do you intend to do with the child?” 

“I intend to see that she is cared for.  I had thought to raise her myself, but I know justice must be served.  I will fetch the child and see that she is enrolled in a convent school with enough money to live out the rest of her days.  Then, I will accompany you to the station and all our debts will be paid.” 

“You would willingly go back to the galleys?  Are you mad, Valjean?”  Javert’s astonished expression caused Valjean to smile—the guileless smile of the martyr.

“I am tired of running and constantly seeing phantoms behind me in every shadow.”  He passed a hand over his brow.  He handed Javert a file. 

Javert took it, examining the contents.  “What is this?” 

“These are forged documents--passports, identification, everything I needed to start a new life.   I give them to you as evidence.” 

Javert was aghast.  Before he could reply,  Valjean rose from his chair and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. “Along with this,” Valjean said as he held out his scarred wrists. 

Then, he removed his waistcoat and begin to unbutton his shirt. “What are you doing?” Javert asked.

Valjean did not answer and instead unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt and opened it to reveal the convict brand---the number scarred forever onto the skin of his chest-- 24601.  “This should provide all the proof you require.”

Once, Javert would have seized him in the iron-like grip of an eagle’s talons and placed him in manacles.  Once, he would have felt vindicated and righteous upon seeing the convict brand.  He would have shone incandescent with the fury of his conviction.  As Valjean buttoned his shirt and put his waistcoat back on, Javert knew he should have felt satisfaction faced with incontrovertible evidence. Instead, he felt only emptiness. 

 “Although it may mean the end of my career, I have decided not to turn you in.”  He handed the folder back to Valjean.

Valjean’s slack-jawed expression was almost childlike. “I don’t understand.” 

Javert stood and paced the room, turning away from the celestial innocence radiating from Valjean.  “You saved my life and I would not see you returned to the galleys again.  If you are brought to justice, you could be sentenced to death and I cannot live with that. “ 

“So—what now?” Valjean asked.

Javert glanced down at his hands.  “I..I do not know.  I cannot return to work yet.  I do not wish to be a burden.” 

“You are not a burden.  I have to make the journey to Montfermeil to retrieve Cosette where I will most likely face a rather unpleasant confrontation with the innkeepers.  Perhaps you would accompany me, Inspector.  I would be glad for the company.” 

Javert’s laugh was dry and throaty.  “I’m not sure how much help an officer with a broken arm will be.”  Valjean’s expression seemed almost disappointed and Javert quickly assured him: “However, as I currently have nothing better to occupy my time, I will accompany you.” 

Valjean grinned again, hazel eyes shining.  “Good.  We leave for Montfermeil tomorrow.”  He extended his hand to Javert.  Javert stared at it for a moment, glancing at his injured right hand.  Valjean realized his mistake and started to withdraw his hand, but Javert awkwardly clasped the hand offered with his left.  Almost immediately, he released Valjean’s warm, callused hand. 

“And when we return?”  he asked, trying to imagine a future for himself. 

“I will see to the child.”  Valjean studied Javert’s drawn features and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then, I promise I will help you bring your attacker to justice.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> \--Thank you so much to Chrissy-24601 for serving as a wonderful Beta reader!   
> \--Thank you also to mrs javert for reading and giving suggestions!   
> \--Thank you very much to all readers!


End file.
